Sweet Natured
by rg kinski
Summary: Character study. John Jack Twist's boyhood. I hope to follow him up to the day he meets Ennis. This is a revision of previous posting.
1. Chapter 1

Sweet-natured, Chapter 1

One day while measuring the north side property line of his daddy's ranch, placing each foot heel to toe, the boy came across an injured hognose snake. Someone had stomped its lower end and left it to die. He suspected one of the Armen brothers, who treated the small prairie animals as moving targets. He made a litter out of his neckerchief for the immobile snake and rushed back to the house. Upstairs in his room, he placed it in a corner of his desk drawer on a nest of wadded-up underpants.

By now, he could clip the wings of a chicken and even disinfect an open wound under his daddy's direction, but he had no idea how to nurse a snake. Although it did not move, he knew it was still alive. It watched him from eyes that reflected the light from his bedroom window. He knew that all living creatures needed two things; food and water. eHe HrhrAfter days of dangling grasshoppers and well-doused baby earthworms near the hognose's snout, and carefully unwinding its coils for a sunbath on his windowsill, the light finally went out of its eyes.

The boy searched basement and barn for a suitable receptacle in which to bear the snake to its final rest. ( And he wanted to unbury it sometime in the future, because he was a boy, after all.) He was thrilled to find a domed lunch pail under a pile of blackened work clothes from when his daddy had tried to work in the mines and still maintain the ranch. Patches of bright aluminum shined on the few inches of metal that had escaped numerous dings and scratches.

He lined the lunch pail with a tea towel and carefully arranged the snake on top. He was surprised that his eyes welled up, and looked in wonder at a wet spot on the back of his hand left by a cascading tear. He hadn't really been feeling sad about the snake. He was a third generation rancher's son and harbored no illusions about the souls of animals, warm-blooded and otherwise. He hoped that he had made the snake's last moments on earth comforting and somewhat less lonely, but nevertheless, it was just a snake. He was only eight years old but he knew that.

The boy tried to make sense of the dull ache of sympathy he felt for the hognose. There was something there for him to know, he was sure of it. It wasn't that he was lonely. The casual brutality of the Armen brothers offended him, and the Laney clan, a small village of a family with grandchildren, cousins and in-laws who all lived together in sprawling decay on the other side of the roadway, didn't mesh well with the secretiveness of his only-child personality. Being alone was his choice.

So it wasn't the sight of the coiled body lying still at the bottom of the lunch pail, a motherless reptile, alone as lone could be, that made him feel so blue.

He intended to bury the snake when the opportune time came. He kept it hidden in his closet, in a cubby behind a pile of extra blankets. Every night, when all the lights in the house were out, he would carefully open the lunchbox, mindful of the creaky hinges, awed that day after day the snake never changed its appearance. Paying homage to the snake, he would present it with a small gift, placed reverently around its body.

What was it that it wanted him to know? He was aware that life had its cycles, and all the tender mercies in the world would not prevent one, nor one's mother and father, nor one's favorite horse, from dying.

The chores took on more significance as the days grew shorter. There was rarely a moment to perform the ritual; by bed-time he was exhausted. Eventually, he stopped. By then, the snake in the lunch pail was buried under layers of dried leaves, clumps of bruised clover, daisy chains, a snowdrift of milkweed seeds, aromatic Lipton teabags, kitchen matches tied into crosses with yarn, the cellophane wrappers from penny candies, paint chips from the barn, fossilized sharks teeth, all weighted down with a rusted horseshoe shrinking daily from deterioration.

He knew that in a matter of days the ground would be too hard to dig, and days after that, it would all be covered in snow, each day more so.

Every morning, 7 days a week, his daddy read to him a list of chores written in the order in which they were to be done. Daddy made the boy so nervous that sometimes he would freeze in the middle of a task, even one that he'd done a hundred times, unable to continue until his daddy kicked him back into gear with a sharp word. Now he had the added burden of trying to sneak a furtive moment to get a hole dug that was wide and deep enough for the lunch pail.

Even when his daddy was inside, the boy felt subject to his repetitive nitpicking. He considered returning the lunch pail and dropping the snake into one of the stands of sagebrush that hadn't yet blown across the prairie to join its kin in the lowlands to the northeast. But he hadn't gone to all that trouble, spent all that time in the snake's company, to not allow for some kind of ceremonial good-bye. The thought of seeing Thad Armen with the unlucky hognose wrapped around the brim of his hat made him shudder.

He wanted to ask his mother's help, but nothing good ever came from inviting her confidence. She didn't bear well under pressure. She would have helped him if he asked. But she would have also betrayed him.

A bit of unexpected luck gave the boy a little more time to accomplish a proper burial for the hognose snake. His daddy suffered a huge deep bruise on his side when the hand-crank on his John Deere slipped off the flywheel, hitting him with a powerful smack. It might even have cracked a rib. He was laid up in bed for time undetermined, assuaging his pain with whiskey tea and overdoses of Robitusson.

Now the boy would not have to restrict his search for a gravesite to the parts of the property that lay beyond the view of his house. He needed a place that was memorable without having to be land-marked, so he could come back later without fear of his daddy or the Armen brothers excavating it. And he needed it to have at least a square foot patch of ground that was still pliable. In a matter of days the ground would be too hard to dig, and days after that, it would be covered in snow, each day more so.

end, chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

Sweet-natured, Chapter 2

Mindful of the list of chores, the boy decided not to worry about the snake until after lunch. He poured feed into the troughs for the chickens and pigs and mucked out the stable good enough for almost done. He chased the cows out of the barn and headed them towards pasture, noting the rosettes of bull thistle overtaking the field of crabgrass and other vegetation. The thistles had to be hand-pulled, the loosened dirt sifted for seeds. They would be a high priority on daddy's future lists.

He thought about the lists, especially the order in which the chores were supposed to be followed. Sometimes it didn't make sense. Sometimes doing them in his daddy's order made the chores stretch out over the course of a day. Some of the chores were too complicated to get done at once, making the rest of the list flop over to the next day. He could never finish the chores. He would never finish the chores.

The boy strode ahead of the cows. There was nothing he could do about the lists. He decided to get back on the hunt. Ahead of him was a modest rise where he could get a full view of his daddy's property. The horizon, broken into equal parts of blue sky on top and frost-burnt fields below, was the ends of the earth to him, the panoramic illusion broken only by a stand of trees behind the house. He could ride Bobits beyond the horizon towards the mountains he couldn't see but knew were there. The snow would just now be falling at the highest peaks. He could set out at night with the lunchpail tied to his saddle, and be back by morning. He could come back just before the next snow, or the one after. If he

buried the hognose in the mountains, or on a river bank, or deep in

a canyon, it could be that thing he needed to tend to, when it was time to leave.

He noticed that the cows were not following him, content to munch around the thistles, or not knowing any better. He whistled at them, yelped, clapped his hands, but not a one looked up. He walked back down and into the small herd, smacking the ones close to him on their haunches, urging them up the rise.

A shock of instant clarity stopped him in his tracks. The cows streamed past, perhaps finally realizing that the forage was more bountiful and less spiny on the other side of the hill. The sound of the frosted crabgrass crunching under their hooves made him look down at his feet. His boots were soaked more than an inch above the sole, letting a chill seep in.

The lists. They were purposely inefficient. His daddy intended for him to make mistakes, to have to do things over again, to take more time every day. Daddy took him out of school last February, claiming hardship on the ranch because some of the cows were calving early. They had to attend to the newborns and their mothers, separating them from the herd, rubbing the calves down every night, keeping their pens clean. By the time they'd been stabilized, the rest of the hiefers were ready to give birth. Now he was being home-schooled. If he went back in September, where would he be, back in third grade? He figured he'd never see the inside of a classroom again.

The boy watched the cows move beyond his sight. He worried a thistle with the toe of his boot, testing the soil for arability. Crouching down, carefully avoiding the spiny leaves, he pinched the rosette at its base, then yanked it up and out. The soil turned over easily as he raked the broken ground with his fingers.

He left the cows on their own and headed home.

So many questions sprung up in his head. What could he use as a landmark? When would Daddy begin tilling the open field for pasture? Could be as soon as the spring. The thistles might prompt him to get it done, but it might also put him off for a year. How long would it take for the lunch pail to settle, to lose its identifiability, to crumble into the earth? Probably a hundred years. Certainly not within the next 4 months.

He shrugged his shoulders and picked up his pace, began to run. His stomach was grumbling. The solution of what to do with the snake would come when it came.

end, chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

Mama watched the boy from the kitchen window. She swore she could see the blue of his eyes though he was a hundred feet away. A tickle in her throat and a quick, involuntary uptake of breath made her sway on her feet. Just a hiccup. It happened every time she caught sight of him unexpectedly, like when he came around a corner quiet as a cat, or when she looked down and suddenly glanced up and there he was, wide blue eyes, solemn face, dimples showing, but not from smiling. He wasn't a smiling kind of boy. He was serious, a thinker. A contemplator. Always thinkin' up something, she said to herself, what I don't know. Which was true. He didn't confide much. Still, she felt she knew him.

The boy was wearing his daddy's old sheepskin coat. She'd tailored the sleeves best she could, but left the length as is, to keep him warm from head to toe. He looked just like a little western man, with the pointed toes of his cowboy boots poking out from under the coat hem. She made herself believe he was running to her. She would run out the door and catch him in her arms. He wasn't too big for her, nor her so fragile that she couldn't do it, grab him up and swing him in a circle, like they were dancing.

As he approached, she let the curtains fall and stepped aside so he wouldn't catch her watching him.

He passed the painted fence that separated the household from the other structures. The smell of bacon seduced him with the promise of salt and smoke. He hastily used the handpump beside the short porch to wash his hands.

Mama was waiting for him in the kitchen. He held his hands out for inspection and she nodded. She had already set a place for him at the table, even poured hot tea in a cereal bowl, topping it off with cream and heaping teaspoons of sugar.

He bent over the plate, inhaling the intense aromas. She'd piled three fried eggs on a thick slice of toast, the yolks barely cooked, as he liked them. He wanted to dip his tongue into the yellow pools.

"John Twist, even a boy hungry as you has time to count his blessings," Mama said.

He tented his hands on the table and bent his forehead to his fingertips. Then, he peeked at her, deep blue eyes holding her gaze. She felt the tickle in her throat, the almost insignificant flutter in her solar plexus, her insides shifting. He offered his hand and she took it, sat down next to him. They prayed together.

"Don't cry, Mama," the boy said, when he looked up.

"I'm not crying", she said.

"Don't you want to eat?"

"I had some coffee. It'll do for now. I won't mind keeping you company, though."

He glanced toward the open archway leading to the front parlor room.

When he looked back, his mama was smiling at him, the tears all dry. He nodded his head and sawed his egg with a fork.

"What were you all in a hurry about, Jack?" she asked him. "You looked like you were trying to…that you were thinking about something. Thinking really hard. What were you thinking about?"

"I was saying my multiplications to myself, so I don't fall behind." He was sorry he said it, though it was a great lie. Still, it was a relief to say it outloud.

Sure enough, she sucked her lips into her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut, disappearing herself. Then her face popped back out and she affected a cheerful demeanor, apologizing for not doing tables with him as often as they should. It was just so hard, the three of them and not a penny to spare for help on the ranch. She didn't mention that half the time his daddy didn't know what the blazes he was doing. It was sinful to talk bad to a child about his father. She felt troubled for even letting the thought cross her mind.

While the boy finished his eggs and bacon, she pulled a folded sheet of notebook paper from her apron pocket, smoothing it flat on the table.

"Well, let's see where we are with the chores," she said.

She looked at it for a bit, moving her lips as she read the list to herself.

"It says here that you are to help me in the garden after breakfast."

The boy's eyes widened, the fork stopped halfway between the plate and his mouth. She rubbed a corner of his mouth as if there were yolk there, then gently stroked his cheek with the back of her hand.

"And then I'm to help you with the rest of your chores."

end, chapter 3


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